rough-hewn fragments of memory and dreams

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when he shucks me

For 3 years, we have lived
3,000 miles apart.
Every day, California calls me
or I call him,
and the distance shucks off
like the green
that blankets an ear of corn.
For a couple of years,
I lived for that shucking,
lived for the moments
when the miles fell away
and I was no longer
just an East coast girl.
I was his girl, his princess,
the lady of his heart.
More than that, I was bare
as one of those ears of corn,
exposed and vulnerable,
ready to be eaten
or devoured.
Here I am, I felt like saying,
when what I really said
was a simple hello.
Through words and letters,
we wove our dreams together,
pretending we wove our lives.
Twice he flew out to see me,
and for a few short days
my life was all puffy clouds
and daydreams
only I wasn't dreaming.
I'd pinch myself
after he kissed me,
leaving little crescents
from my fingernails
in the fleshy part of my arm.
Now it has been two years
since we've made love,
two years since anyone
has kissed me
the way he kissed me,
his hands cupping my face,
his whole mouth drinking me in.
I don't dare say
we're growing apart,
but when he shucks me now,
the green no longer
all falls off.
California, my California,
you've never seemed
so far away.